


A New Light

by akane42me



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 15:03:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16976829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: Prompts: Bubble Christmas Lights, Holly, A very special wish made under the mistletoeMerry Christmas to you, Spikesgirl58, from your Secret Agent Santa!





	A New Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spikesgirl58](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/gifts).



> Prompts: Bubble Christmas Lights, Holly, A very special wish made under the mistletoe
> 
> Merry Christmas to you, Spikesgirl58, from your Secret Agent Santa!

Napoleon Solo was humming. Random bits of Christmas songs floated from the depths of an over-sized cardboard carton as he rummaged through its contents, placing Christmas decorations and boxes of Christmas ornaments on the sofa.

“There you are.”  He straightened, swinging a mistletoe ornament by its red ribbon. He carried the mistletoe to the kitchen chair he’d positioned in the doorway between the living room and the foyer, where a tack hammer waited on the seat, along with a tack. He picked them up, climbed onto the chair, and tacked the red ribbon to the ceiling. He gave it a little spin. He hopped down, hauled the chair back to the kitchen table, returned the hammer to the tool drawer.

 The door intercom buzzed. That was fast, he thought, hurrying to the door, pushing the button to speak. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” said Illya.

“Come on up,” Napoleon said, and buzzed Illya in. Moments later, a knock sounded on the door. Napoleon eyed the peephole and opened the door. “I was hoping you’d be Mama Lin’s.”

“Chinese? Good choice.” Illya held a tie box sized Christmas gift in one hand and a liquor bottle shaped one in the other. He placed the presents under the Christmas tree. “You’re decorating the tree yourself? No girls from the secretary pool?”

“I was in the mood.” Napoleon picked up a box from the coffee table and handed it to Illya. “This arrived in the mail the other day, and it made me want to do it myself.”

“Bubble lights? These look pretty old.”

“They were my grandmother’s. She sent them to me from Paris. She remembered how much I liked them back when she lived in the U.S.” 

“They remind me of the candles on my grandmother’s Christmas tree,” said Illya. “Of course, hers were real candles, lit candles. Not plastic, chemical-filled—”

“Be nice."

“I can still hear her warning me not to touch them or I’d burn my fingers.”

“Same here," said Napoleon. "I was always trying to touch the lights on the tree.”

Illya put the box back on the coffee table.

“Take them out,” said Napoleon. “They have to go on the tree before the ornaments.”

Illya hung his coat in the closet and rejoined Napoleon, who was opening and sorting the ornament boxes he’d placed on the sofa. He hummed a bit of a Christmas tune. Off-key.

“Napoleon. Your humming is..."

Turning, Napoleon saw Illya’s pleading look and said, “It’s the spirit that counts.”  With a devious smile, he resumed the ornament sorting.  And began singing.

“…the most wonderful time of the year…”

 _Schmaltz._ Illya tried to ignore it. He pulled the string of bubble lights from the box, uncoiled them, and plugged them into an outlet to test them. They didn’t light.

“…kids jingle-belling…”

_Jingle-belling is not a verb —_

“…there’ll be much mistletoeing…”

 _Inanities – he’s doing this on purpose to annoy me —_ Illya sighed and carefully twisted each bubble light into its base. They still didn’t light.

“…with marshmallows roasting…”  

The off-key nasal tone was worse than nails on a blackboard.  Illya allowed himself the smallest of winces. He slid the wiring between his thumb and forefinger, feeling for a break.

“…hap-happiest season of _alll_ …”  Napoleon scratched his way up the scale to the crescendo.

“Napoleon, _please._ ” A shock of electric current jolted through Illya’s hand and up his arm.  He yelped and dropped the lights. “If you don’t stop singing, I’m leaving and taking your gifts with me.” He yanked the cord from the outlet, picked up the lights and shook them. 

“Hey, take it easy with those. They’re my grandmother’s.”

“I heard you the first time. These things are a hazard.” Illya picked up the string of bubble lights, re-examined it, and located the spot where the plastic insulation on the wiring had split open, exposing broken strands of copper within. He went to the kitchen, rummaged in the tool drawer, returned with electrician’s tape, pliers, and a paring knife. He spliced the wires and carefully wrapped the tape over the join. He plugged the lights in. They lit. “Success,” he said.

Napoleon turned around to see Illya, head bent, absorbed in his repair work, his face bathed in soft, golden light. Napoleon caught his breath. There it was again - the flutter, the tiny disturbance in the universe—

“…most wonderful time of the year…” 

Napoleon’s voice had gone oddly soft. Illya looked up. Napoleon, motionless, was watching him. Studying him. At Illya’s glance, a look of caution flickered across Napoleon’s face. It was gone in an instant, but Illya saw it.

Illya’s little smile of triumph faltered. He looked away. He unplugged the lights and gathered them. He glanced back at Napoleon, but he’d turned away, busying himself with a box of glass ornaments.

The door buzzer buzzed.

Napoleon went to the intercom. “Yes?”

“Mama Lin’s,” came the reply. Napoleon buzzed the door open. “Food’s here.”

When the knock came on the door, Napoleon checked the peephole and opened the door to a tall, burly man wearing a too-small Mama Lin’s uniform, holding a jumbo-size brown delivery bag by its white cord handles.

“Where’s Jerry?” asked Napoleon as the delivery man came inside. “He’s usually on the night—”

The delivery man flung the bag at Napoleon and lunged at him, grabbing him by the shoulders. Napoleon bulldozed the guy back out into the hallway. From behind, Illya ran at them and stabbed the attacker in the neck with the pointed end of one of the bubble lights. It stuck in the man’s neck and broke off at the base. Howling in pain, the man tightened his grip on Napoleon.  Illya thrust the length of the bubble lights over the man’s head and with a savage yank, garroted him. The man let go of Napoleon and grabbed at his neck. Illya pulled harder. The string of lights broke, and Illya stumbled backward. Napoleon punched the man in the head. The man collapsed to the floor, knocked out.

They stood over the man for a moment, catching their breath.

“It’s so hard to get decent help at the holidays,” said Illya.

Napoleon dug in the man’s trouser pockets and fished out a wallet.  “He’s got a Thrush ID in here.” 

Illya crouched beside Napoleon. He pulled the shaft of the bubble light from the Thrush man’s neck. 

“Is there nothing you won’t turn into a weapon?” Napoleon asked. “Those were my _grandmother’s_ —"

“I _know_. Your grandmother’s dearly beloved vintage bubble lights. I had them in my hands, I used them. I’m sorry I broke them.”

Napoleon picked up the broken string of lights. “I hope I can get them repaired.”

Illya hoisted the Thrush man by the armpits and hauled him inside the apartment. Napoleon followed. Together they surveyed the damage. The white Chinese food boxes had tumbled from the carrier bag during the melee and burst open, their contents splattered across the carpeting.

 “My cleaning lady’s going to kill me,” said Napoleon. “Again.” He called U.N.C.L.E. Security, who assured them they would be there to pick up the Thrush man within a half-hour. 

“That was our dinner,” said Illya. “Now what are we going to eat?”

“Well, George did invite us to the—”

“The Section Four Christmas party? I don’t think I can take much more hap-hap-happiness.”

 * * * *

 

My Brother’s Place was jumping. George Dennell and his buddies had commandeered all of the seats at the bar. Already well-lubricated, tossing jokes and insults back and forth, they shouted to hear each other over the din, Dennell’s voice rising above it all, roaring a punchline, the men exploding in laughter. Beneath it all the jukebox beat a steady rhythm, its tunes lost in the revelry.

The place was poorly lit, which was fine with Charlie, the owner, and his U.N.C.L.E. clientele. Neon back bar lights, the green pool table light, and the juke box barely illuminated the front section.  In the back, low-watt wall sconces and two amber ceiling lights did little to dispel the shadows shrouding the booths and tables.

One lone table in the back corner was unoccupied. “How about if you grab that table and I get the drinks,” said Illya, already moving toward a small crack in the wall of Section Four men at the bar. Napoleon headed to the table, where it was mercifully quieter.

Charlie had decorated the place for Christmas in modern accidental: Artificial holly centerpieces plopped on each table and booth; red garland swags slung in haphazard crisscrosses overhead; plastic mistletoe balls suspended off-kilter above each table, attached to the garland by twist-ties salvaged from bread bags.

At the bar, voices rose as Illya returned the volley of greetings from George and company. Charlie’d already spotted him and was heading his way to get his order.

The jukebox paused as the rack of 45s spun and the next selection dropped. Strains of violins and Bing Crosby singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” poured forth.  A chorus of groans and complaints erupted from the bar. Fred Sawyer and Rita Shea, holding hands, made their way from a booth in the back to the tiny space in front of the juke box. They wrapped their arms around each other and two-stepped in a slow circle to the music. The crowd at the bar moaned. Fred and Rita kissed. Someone yelled, “Knock it off, you two!” The couple ignored it all. The song ended, and Fred brushed a lock of Rita’s hair from her forehead and whispered something in her ear. They kissed again.

Watching them kiss, Napoleon drew his forefinger across his lips. A wave of yearning rippled over him. He looked up at the beat-up bundle of mistletoe dangling above the table. _I want – I wish—_ His gaze drifted to Illya.

Illya, a drink in each hand, was watching him. Napoleon took his finger from his lips. Put his hand down. 

Arriving at the table, Illya set the drinks down, sat across from Napoleon, and said, “You should see the look on your face. You look like you’re about to start singing Christmas songs again.” He turned,  watched Fred and Rita for a moment, and shook his head. “You’re a slow learner for someone ordinarily so quick-witted," he said. He took a sip of his drink and idly twisted a red plastic holly berry from the centerpiece.

“What do you mean?” 

“I saw the way you were looking at them.”  Illya nodded his head toward the jukebox. “What they have, people like us can’t have.”  He pulled another holly berry free.

Napoleon, unsettled, said, “People like us.”   

“Yes.” Another berry. “People like us," Illya said, and stripped the last three berries from the holly.

Napoleon took a drink. Examined the ice in his glass.

“Look at me,” Illya said.

Napoleon looked.

Illya sighed. “I know what you want. You must realize that.” He held his hand out to Napoleon and opened it. “You want these pretty red berries,” he said softly. “But they’re poison."

"Don't say that."

"I have to," Illya replied. "You can’t look at me the way they look at each other. Or hold my hand. Or brush my hair off my brow, just to touch me. Or whisper in my ear.” Illya’s eyes hardened. He tilted his hand, rolling the berries onto the table. “It will ruin your career. For me - worse.” He shook his head. “So, don’t wish for those things.”

Napoleon nudged the berries to the table’s edge. 

 _Sometimes you think before you  choose._ _And sometimes you don't._  He swept the berries to the floor.

 _You_ _just run to the edge of the cliff and fly ._

* * * *

_Grandmother is humming._

_Red yellow green blue light bulbs one two three four five six seven eight._

_“No, no,” says Grandmother. “Hot, hot. No touching.”_

_“I won’t,” he says. He thinks, I want to touch them._

_Red yellow green blue shiny ornaments one two three four five six seven eight._

_“No, no,” says Grandmother. “No touching.”_

_“I won’t,” he says. He thinks, I want to touch them._

_Grandmother takes him by the hand and leads him away from the Christmas tree to his toy box. “Play with your blocks, Napoleon.” She disappears into the kitchen._

_He goes back to the tree. The long silver strings are called tinsel. They break off when he pulls at them. He crumples the bits of tinsel into a tiny ball and puts it into his mouth. He likes the taste of metal._

_He touches the shiny blue ball with his name painted on it. Last year there were three. Now there are four. Each has a number painted on it below his name. 1, 2, 3, 4._ _He hasn’t told anyone he can read his name, and the numbers, and many other things, in his story books and in the Sunday funnies. He is good at learning things all by himself. How to be careful. How to listen for Grandmother’s footsteps so he can get back to his blocks before she returns. He keeps these things to himself. He is very good at keeping secrets._

 _He inches his finger near the blue light bulb, so close its heat warms his fingertip.  He touches the red bulb hot hot_  

 

His communicator went off. Napoleon grabbed the warbling pen from the bedside stand. The glow-in-the-dark hands on the alarm clock pointed to quarter after two. “Mr. Solo?” Alexander Waverly’s voice came at him in the dark. “We have a situation…Cologne…”  Two minutes later, Napoleon capped the pen and went back to sleep. He had four hours before he had to leave.  

 

_Illya holds the bubble lights_

_Bubbles tiny red bubbles_

_Hot hot no touching_

 

The alarm clock went off.

* * * *

 

As he left his apartment, Napoleon passed beneath the mistletoe he’d hung in the doorway.  He thought of what he’d wished for the night before. And wished for it again.

Outside, the cab was waiting at the curb.  Sunrise was minutes away, the eastern sky gold-tinged peaches and pinks.  He stepped into the new light of the new day. At La Guardia, the plane to Cologne awaited. But he was already flying. 

 

The End


End file.
